Red Pottage

by Mary Cholmondeley

"I said the truth, that it was no hallucination but the fact, that much as I regretted to say so Hester had written a profane and immoral book, and that I had felt it my duty to burn it, and a very painful duty it had been. I said he would have done the same if he had read it."

"I am glad you said that."

"Well, the awkward part was that he said he had read it, every word, and that he considered it the finest book that had been written in his day. And then he began to walk up and down and to become rather excited, and to say that he could not understand how I could take upon myself such a responsibility, or on what grounds I considered myself a judge of literature. As if I ever did consider myself a judge! But I do know right from wrong. We had got on all right up till then, especially when he spoke so cordially of you and me, but directly he made a personal matter of Hester's book, setting his opinion against mine, for he repeated over and over again it was a magnificent book, his manner seemed to change. He tried to speak kindly, but all the time I saw that my considering the book bad while he thought it good, gravelled him, and made him feel annoyed with me. The truth is, he can't bear any one to think differently from himself."

"He always was like that," said the comforter.

"I said I supposed he thought it right to run down the clergy and hold them up to ridicule. He said, 'Certainly not, but he did not see how that applied to anything in Hester's book.' He said, 'She has drawn us, without bias towards us, exactly as we appear to three-quarters of the laity. It won't do us any harm to see ourselves for once as others see us. There is in these days an increasing adverse criticism of us in many men's minds, to which your sister's mild rebukes are as nothing. We have drawn it upon ourselves, not so much by our conduct, which I believe to be uniformly above reproach, or by any lack of zeal, as by our ignorance of our calling; by our inability to "convert life into truth," the capital secret of our profession, as I was once told as a divinity student. I for one believe that the Church will regain her prestige and her hold on the heart of the nation, but if she does, it will be mainly due to a new element in the minds of the clergy, a stronger realization, not of our responsibilities—we have that—but of the education, the personal search for truth, the knowledge of human nature, which are necessary to enable us to meet them.' He went on a long time about that. I think he grows very wordy. But I did not argue with him. I let him say what he liked. I knew that I must be obedient to my Bishop, just as I should expect my clergy to be to me, if I ever am a Bishop myself. Not that I expect I ever shall be"—Mr. Gresley was overtired—"but it seemed to me as he talked about the book, that all the time, though he put me down to the highest motives—he did me that justice—he was trying to make me own I had done wrong."

"You didn't say so?" said the little wife, hotly.

"My dear, need you ask? But I did say at last that I had consulted with Archdeacon Thursby on the matter, and he had strongly advised me to do as I did. The Bishop seemed thunderstruck. And then—it really seemed providential—who should come in but Archdeacon Thursby himself. The Bishop went straight up to him, and said, 'You come at a fortunate moment, for I am greatly distressed at the burning of Miss Gresley's book, and Gresley tells me that you advised it.' And would you believe it," said Mr. Gresley, in a strangled voice, "the Archdeacon actually denied it then and there. He said he did not know Hester had written a book, and had never been consulted on the subject."

The tears forced themselves out of Mr. Gresley's eyes. He was exhausted and overwrought. He sobbed against his wife's shoulder.

"Wicked liar!" whispered Mrs. Gresley, into his parting. "Wicked, wicked man! Oh, James, I never thought the Archdeacon could have behaved like that!"

"Nor I," gasped Mr. Gresley, "but he did. I suppose he did not want to offend the Bishop. And when I expostulated with him, and reminded him of what he had advised only the day before, he said that was about a letter, not a book, as if it mattered which it was. It was the principle that mattered. But they neither of them would listen to me. I said I had offered to help to rewrite it, and the Bishop became quite fierce. He said I might as well try to rewrite Regie if he were in his coffin. And then he mentioned, casually, as if it were quite an afterthought, that Hester had sold it for a thousand pounds. All through, I knew he was really trying to hurt my feelings, in spite of his manner, but when he said that he succeeded."